


Whether It's In My Heart

by coloursflyaway



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Classical Music, First Dates, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 03:59:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5770408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coloursflyaway/pseuds/coloursflyaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Harry is a tailor, Eggsy is a street musician and they fall in love anyway.<br/>Or: Five Times Harry asks Eggsy to play a song for him, and the one song Eggsy chooses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whether It's In My Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Neko_wa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neko_wa/gifts).



> This was such a sweet prompt to write, and I admit that I might have geeked out a bit too much with all of that music, but oh well. It's seldom that you can combine two things you love so easily.  
> I hope it (still) works for the person who prompted it! ♥

 

_Cello Sonata in G Minor - Bach, Johann Sebastian[X](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mGQLXRTl3Z0)  
_

He has brown hair and dark eyes, wears black-rimmed glasses and always wears a suit, just like he always drops a pound or two into the empty violin case in front of Eggsy. There’s something about the way he carries himself that makes Eggsy a little bit weak-kneed, makes him want to play better than ever before, just so the stranger will notice him.  
In his head, Eggsy calls him Mr. Darcy, just because he doesn’t have any other name, and because it works so well, a tall, dark stranger, rich for all Eggsy knows, mysterious, but with a smile on his lips whenever their eyes meet.

It's always between nine and ten that he walks past Eggsy’s spot, all grace and an air of royalty around him, like he is untouchable, better than anyone around him. So when the clock Eggsy sees from the corner of his eyes strikes nine, he changes the tunes he plays, goes from Britney Spears and Imagine Dragons to classical music.  
Or, to be absolutely exact, Bach’s _Violin Sonata No. 26 in B-flat major,_ a song he heard first in _Truly, Madly, Deeply_ , a film he only watched because of Alan Rickman but ended up loving far too much.  
It’s slow, soft and tender, but laced with a melancholy that almost takes Eggsy’s breath away whenever he starts with the first few notes. He likes it still, and can only hope that his Mr. Darcy will like it too.

And he has picked the perfect time apparently, because he has not even gotten through half the song when another wave of people comes up the stairs, a few of them dropping coins into the violin case in from of Eggsy. All the while, Eggsy looks out for a dark suit and brown eyes, heart skipping when he finally makes out a familiar face.  
Maybe it’s subconscious, but he straightens his back, cranes his neck just a little, puts just a hint more longing, a touch more love into the strokes of his bow, the music he creates.

Their eyes meet and Eggsy can’t suppress the smile, even if he can’t hold the other’s gaze for long, has to look down, only to look back up a second later.  
Mr. Darcy has come so much closer, which betrays just how long his legs are, so close that Eggsy can make out the warm brown of his eyes, the wrinkles around them, the smudge on the left side of his glasses. He takes another step, another, and then he bends down, drops something in Eggsy’s violin case.  
Of course, Eggsy has expected it, but it still makes his heart pick up its speed.  
“Good morning”, Mr. Darcy greets, and it’s the first time Eggsy has heard his voice; it’s better than anything he could have imagined, smooth and deep, like old whiskey, like dark chocolate.  
It’s good that Eggsy has the excuse of his violin in his hands, because he wouldn’t be able to greet back anyway.

 

When Eggsy collects the coins from his violin case a few hours later, his shoulders and arms aching, he doesn’t just find a little bit more money than expected, but also a little slip of paper. It’s wrapped around a two pound coin, and although there is no way he can know, Eggsy just does, knows that Mr. Darcy has left it there.

_Thank you, your music makes my mornings a little less dreary.  
Might I suggest Vivaldi’s Spring for the future?_

_With the utmost admiration and looking forward to tomorrow,_

_Harry Hart_

_Harry_ , Eggsy repeats in his head, then mumbles it under his breath, loves the way the name rolls off his tongue.  
_Harry_.  
It sounds right.

 

_La Primavera – Vivaldi, Antonio[X](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nK0ltYwNoLw)  
_

It’s one of the first real pieces of music Eggsy has ever learnt, one of the songs he always played for his grandma before she went to the nursing home; she still has an old tape of him playing it.  
So it’s not a problem at all to play it the next morning when Harry walks around the corner, ignoring that he is in the middle of The Kink’s _Sunny Afternoon_ in favour of playing what the man of his dreams wanted him to play.

Harry stops this time too, stops and smiles and writes down a note on a slip of paper, which he drops into Eggsy’s violin case together with a few coins. He looks stunning, his suit tailored to perfection and his hair looking soft and yet styled, making Eggsy want to run his fingers through it and ruin it.  
He can’t though, he can’t and he won’t ever be able to (Eggsy has to remind himself of that more often now, hoping that it will seep into his subconscious at some point, make him stop dreaming about Harry), so instead of trying, he continues to play, _La Primavera_ first and then continues with The Kinks, plays Lady Gaga and Tchaikovsky, a bit of _My Fair Lady_ mixed into it when he has a weak moment, until his fingers ache and his back is stiff.  
And then, only then, Eggsy allows himself to put down his violin, sort through the coins in the case and pulls a slip of paper from between them, white and pristine.

_My virtuoso,_

_I didn’t expect a response this soon or this beautiful._  
_Thank you for making my day a little brighter._  
_If I may –there is a piece by Mozart I particularly enjoy, Violin Sonata No. 26 in B-flat major. Just in case you feel like a little challenge._

_With kind regards,_

_HH_

 

_Violin Sonata No. 26 in B-flat major – Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus[X ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AMT21ng1_8E)_

It’s a miracle, really, because it turns out that Mozart’s _Violin Sonata No. 26 in B-flat major_ is one of the pieces he learnt to play when he still had a violin instructor, so the sheet music for it is still in one of his old, tattered folders. There are tea splatters on the page, a smudge of his mum’s lipstick in some corner, but it’s still readable, and Eggsy spends half the night relearning the tune, until he can feel the music in every cell of his body, every breath that he takes.

And yet, Eggsy is still nervous when he sets down the empty violin case down in front of him the next morning, stands up straight and takes the instrument in one hand, positions it properly. He thought about playing something else, changing the song when he sees Harry approach, so the other will definitely know that Eggsy is playing it just for him, but it’s too big a risk; Eggsy doesn’t want to scramble again to somehow change the song without making it sound disharmonious.  
So instead, Eggsy starts with the sonata right away, lets the first notes drift off into the crowded London tube station, sweet and melancholic, and it gets easier after that.

In the end, he plays it thrice before he spots a familiar figure in the crowd, tall and broad-shouldered as he pushes through the masses; Eggsy almost doesn’t notice him because he is so lost in the music he had forgotten.  
But Harry stops in front of him, although there are dozens of people around, stands still with a smile blossoming on his face and Eggsy’s eyes find his, their gazes locking, and Eggsy isn’t thinking about it, but the music changes beneath his fingertips. What has been melancholic becomes longing, what was sweet becomes dream-like.

Harry seems to notice it too, because his expression changes, softens and Mozart’s sonata is feather-light all of a sudden, pours from Eggsy’s fingers like water, like wine.  
The moment is endless, seems to stretch forever, and Eggsy plays and plays and plays until Harry breaks their eye contact, reaches in his pocket to pull out a pen, his wallet. Eggsy can’t see exactly what the other is doing - there are too many people passing between them - but just a few moments later, Harry steps closer, drops the note into his violin case like every morning, but Eggsy hardly notices because their eyes meet again.  
They haven’t even spoken to one another and yet Eggsy is so far gone for the other already.

Harry stays for another few seconds, not longer, but the spell is broken; Harry leaves and Eggsy continues to play until his fingers feel like they are about to fall off, his neck too stiff to bear it any longer.  
There are more coins in his case than there usually are and Eggsy feels flattered, pleased, even more so when he finds two neatly folded five pound notes underneath the coins. He almost doesn’t notice what has been scribbled onto them in that already-familiar, elegant handwriting.

 _Thank you, you play it better than anyone I’ve ever heard before._  
_All the best,_  
_HH_

 

_In case you are looking for more suggestions, might I suggest La Mer by Claude Debussy?  
HH_

Eggsy is fairly certain that he’ll always be looking for suggestions if Harry is the one making them.

_La Mer– Debussy, Claude[X](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FOCucJw7iT8)  
_

_Moderate tempo, don’t go too fast_ , that’s what his teacher had always told him when they had practiced this piece. _Allow the bow to go off, but not too far, keep it close._  
So Eggsy curses himself when Harry comes around the corner and his arm won’t remember any of it, strokes his bow too fast, lets it go too far off the strings, not fucking it up, but making it just a little less perfect, a little less beautiful.  
And even if he is just a street musician and even if he plays his violin in the tube station in Oxford Circus, Eggsy still wants to play as well as he can, especially when Harry is around.

Not that the other seems to notice, not with the way his steps slow as soon as he recognises the music, his lips twitch up into a little smile, one which Eggsy returns within a second, even if it means slipping up once more, letting the bow come off too much again, not giving the next few notes the power they need.  
Ms. Denzel would cringe but Eggsy ignores it in favour of concentrating on Harry, just wishes he had made the effort to actually practice the piece before coming here.

Just like the day before, Harry stops in front of him to listen and it’s like his attention is a drug, makes Eggsy forget the bustle around them within seconds. It’s Harry and him and the sea, and Eggsy wants to lose himself in the feeling, wants it to last forever.  
Nonetheless, it hardly lasts longer than a minute before Harry breaks the gaze and with it a little bit of Eggsy’s heart, reaches into his pocket, pulls a slip of paper out. He scribbles something on it and heals what he has broken; Eggsy has been looking forward for another note, has long since realised that he doesn’t care about the money the other man leaves in his violin case, not as much as he cares about the smiles, the little almost-letters. Even if there have only been four of them.

Their eyes meet again when Harry steps closer, and Eggsy is captivated, never considered brown to be a beautiful colour until now.

 

When he packs his bags a few hours later, there is another note hidden between the coins and Eggsy picks it up gently, smoothing it out before reading it.

_My nameless violinist,_

_Thank you and thank you again. That you would find time to humour an old man like me with giving in to his silly wishes!  
I feel more than just flattered. _

_The next suggestion might be a little odd, so please, feel free to ignore it; I will enjoy listening to whatever else you might choose just as much.  
In case you want to give it a try, though, I’d love to hear you play Heidenröslein by Franz Schubert; I’m sure it would sound even better if you played it. _

_Sincerely,_

_HH_

 

_Heidenröslein – Schubert, Franz[X](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JTR4KiwrwFs)  
_

Harry was right – while the last two pieces he had asked for had been easy enough, this one is anything but. It's not so much the actual difficulty of the song than that Eggsy has never heard of it before, that he can find sheet music for it, but it takes some time to figure out how to use his bow, how to make the music sound as bittersweet as it does in the videos he watches on YouTube.  
And yet, although it takes days upon days, and yet Eggsy cannot find it in himself to stop.

It’s not because he thinks Harry would be dreadfully disappointed if he gave up – the older man has been nothing short of lovely these last nine days, leaving little notes in his violin case every day but one, sending Eggsy smiles that made his cheeks turn pink and his heart flutter, once muttered _Have a wonderful day_ in the most beautiful voice when he had dropped a coin or two in to Eggsy’s case, along with another slip of paper.  
No, it’s something else entirely, something that is even harder to understand. Eggsy wants to manage this, wants to please Harry, make him proud, a man who he has never spoken to, who doesn’t even know his name.

So he tries and tries, until he has memorised the whole thing at least twice, is fairly sure he could sing along with his playing, even if the lyrics are in German and his pronunciation is all over the place.  
Sometimes he wonders if Harry speaks German, if he knows what kind of song he asked Eggsy to play.

All in all, it takes almost two weeks until Eggsy is ready to play the song he has learnt just for the man he thinks about before he goes to sleep and after he wakes up, the man he won’t ever, ever touch, because he wants to be certain he can do the little song justice.  
Still, he’s nervous when he sets up his things that day, putting off having to start by fiddling with his jacket, his bag, the case of his violin. It’s ridiculous and he knows it, but can’t stop himself until it’s too late, until Harry is turning the corner and Eggsy isn’t even playing yet.

The other must have gotten here a little earlier, or at least that is what Eggsy tells himself while he tries to ignore the blush rising on his cheeks, the utter mortification he is feeling, even if there is no reason to; he’s just a street musician and Harry, as he has learnt from a note left on a fancy-looking business card, is one of those high-class tailors.  
And yet, it feels like more than that.

It feels like the beginning of something at least, if not like they are in the middle of it already.  
Which explain why the blush won’t leave Eggsy’s cheeks, only deepens, maybe even explains why Harry doesn’t walk past him without a second glance (and oh, how that would have hurt), but stops, waits until Eggsy has raised his violin, positioned it properly.  
The first note sounds unsure, too shrill, and Eggsy flinches, doesn’t raise his head to meet Harry’s eyes, almost afraid of what he might find there. Instead, he draws his bow across the strings again, again, until his fingers have found the right way to move once more, have remembered the motions and the music he can draw with them from the instrument in his hands.  
And it becomes easier, because he knows this music, has lived with it those past weeks to the point where Schubert seemed to compose the soundtrack to his dreams; Eggsy can feel himself relaxing, knows that the screeching start was nothing compared to the song he is playing now. His _Heidenröslein_ had always been soft and melancholic, but now it’s longing, almost fierce and Eggsy can’t stop although he knows that his cheeks are burning a bright red.  
He’s revealing too much with every note that drips from his bow, still can’t look up at Harry because he knows that he’d say all the rest with his eyes within a second’s time.

Harry doesn’t seem to move at all, and Eggsy hopes he’s captivated, not staying here out of politeness, a misplaced sense of responsibility; he gets his answer a few minutes later when he has finished.  
Eggsy waits, eyes still not raised and his violin clamped between his shoulder and chin, but Harry doesn’t leave, stays right where he is, although there are people passing between them, in a hurry or just strolling through the passages without a care in the world. Some of them leave a coin or two in Eggsy’s violin case, but he hardly notices, because Harry is still there, doesn’t move. And so, tentatively, Eggsy draws his bow across the strings again to play the first note once more.

It’s clear this time, still longing, but something else is seeping into the way Eggsy plays the song as he continues, when Harry doesn’t leave. Hope.

He doesn’t get through the entire song a second time, at least not flawlessly – Harry leans down to scribble something down, the scrap of paper Eggsy has been looking forward to since last Friday, and that is not what makes his breath hitch; it’s the look in Harry’s eyes when he finally does look up, one that makes Eggsy thin he might feel too, fear and a bit of awe, all covered in a coat of longing hope.  
With his breath, his fingers lose their rhythm, draw the bow across the strings shakily and the spell isn’t broken, but a little bit damaged.  
Harry lets the note flutter down into the violin case; their eyes meet once more, and then he’s gone.

 

Eggsy hasn’t felt this nervous in a long time when he picks up the slip of paper after he has stopped playing. He hardly managed to go on for more than an hour after Harry had left, his mind too muddled up to concentrate on even the songs he knows so well he could play with his eyes closed.  
It’s shorter than usual, even Harry’s handwriting looks shaky, that’s what he notices first, once he has set eyes on the note.

 _I never thought I’d dare to write this down, my beautiful virtuoso: Go out with me._  
_I’ll be here at seven today and it would make me the happiest man if you were, too. If not, I will understand._  
Sincerely,  
HH

 

It’s seven and Eggsy tugs on his sleeves, his heart beating so fast and so hard that he feels like he is going to pass out any second. This is not what happens in real life, this is the stuff movies are made of, and he can feel that he will fuck it up, deep down.  
What else could happen?  
There are people passing him, pushing and shoving because they know that Eggsy doesn’t belong here, but he hardly notices them, looks out for a familiar face, perfectly styled hair.

Again, he looks at his phone to check the time, feeling his heart plummet in his chest when it’s eight minutes past and Harry still hasn’t showed up. Maybe the other man has changed his mind, has realised that, without a sweet Schubert tune muddling his mind, Eggsy is just a pleb, no one someone like Harry should spare a second glance.  
He’s about to leave, because it’s ten past and he should never have hoped, but when he looks up, Harry’s looking down at him, brown eyes and a little, tentative, hopeful smile on his lips.  
“You stayed”, he says instead of greeting and his voice sounds like Eggsy remembers it, deep and smooth, like velvet feels. “I didn’t- what’s your name? I never asked.”

He sounds nervous, even if just a bit, relieved, and Eggsy can’t help but smile back, the happiness he had felt when reading the note slowly starting to fill his chest again, bright and blissful.  
“I’m Eggsy”, he answers, holds out his hand for Harry to take. “Nice t’ meet ya.”

 

_Voi Che Sapete – Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus[X ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mDeFdGzthV0)_

„Oi, Harry.”  
The other looks up from the book he’s reading and Eggsy feels the same thing as he always does when their eyes meet – his heart flutters, his lips curl up into a smile and Eggsy wonders if that will ever change, when it hasn’t in the last four months. He grips the violin a little tighter as if he was scared to drop it because he was too distracted by Harry’s eyes and face and smile.  
“What is it?”, the older man asks, smiles back, just like he always does.  
“I’ve learnt a new song. Wanted to check if ya knew it, maybe.”  
“Of course.”

Harry sits back, all his attention focussed on him, and Eggsy suddenly feels as nervous as he did when he was still playing in the tube station to somehow get the other’s attention. So, just like he always did back then, he takes a deep breath, raises his violin and starts playing, letting his eyes drift shut.  
The song isn’t longing and melancholic like so many Eggsy likes to play, it’s confused, but happy, sweet but not bitter, even if it’s a confession of some sort. He plays it maybe a little too fast, to the beat of his heart instead of the one Mozart wanted him to use, and maybe Harry minds it; it’s hard to tell with his eyes closed.

There’s a soft _Ah_ , and Eggsy knows that Harry has recognised the aria, which is as good as it is terrifying – Eggsy knows that the other man speaks Italian, used to be married to an Italian woman even, so he knows what Eggsy is trying to say.  
“Voi che sapete, che cosa è amor…” Eggsy didn’t even think about singing, not when he knows he can’t concentrate both on that and his violin, but Harry does it for him and even if the other’s voice is thin and not made for this, it seems like one of the prettiest things Eggsy has ever heard.”… donne vedete, s'io l'ho nel cor-“

Eggsy’s eyes flutter open and there’s a smile on his lips, just like there is one on Harry’s, and he manages another few notes, Harry sings another few words, before Eggsy drops his bow to his side. There is a faint blush on his cheeks, betraying just how silly he feels, even if he tilts his head, asks, “And? Ya know it then?”  
“Absolutely.” There is something in his eyes that Eggsy would almost call hopeful, something that makes his heart flutter and his mouth go a little bit dry. “And I assume you know the lyrics?”  
“More or less. Yeah.”  
“I was hoping to get that answer.”

There’s a pause and Eggsy does his best not to fidget, not to look as nervous as he feels, even if it’s hard, because even if he thinks he knows what Harry’s answer to his unspoken confession would be, the other hasn’t given it yet. Still, he steps closer, closer, until he can take Harry’s hands in his, hold them.  
“And? What d’ya say?”  
Maybe it’s too soon, Eggsy thinks, an almost desperate edge clinging to his thoughts when Harry doesn’t answer right away, because he knows that it’s early in their relationship, that usually, people wait a little longer than this until they confess their love. But Harry at least doesn’t seem put off, doesn’t pull his hands away, only, after a few seconds, raises them to his lips, presses a kiss to his knuckles. It's what’s the male lead in a romantic movie would have done, and once again Eggsy is reminded just why he nicknamed Harry _Mr. Darcy_ all that time ago.

The other man brushes his thumb over Eggsy’s knuckles, and there is a fire making his eyes brighten to the point where it almost hurts to look at him; Harry wouldn’t have to say a word because there is nothing else this look could mean than that Eggsy loves and is loved in return.  
“I love you too.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> _For anyone interested in the translation of the last song:_   
>  _You who know what love is,_   
>  _Women, see whether it's in my heart,_   
>  _Women, see whether it's in my heart._   
>  _What I am experiencing I will tell you,_   
>  _It is new to me and I do not understand it._   
>  _I have a feeling full of desire,_   
>  _That now, is both pleasure and suffering._   
>  _At first frost, then I feel the soul burning,_   
>  _And in a moment I'm freezing again._   
>  _Seek a blessing outside myself,_   
>  _I do not know how to hold it, I do not know what it is._   
>  _I sigh and moan without meaning to,_   
>  _Throb and tremble without knowing,_   
>  _I find no peace both night or day,_   
>  _But even still, I like to languish._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  


End file.
